


HOT(?) SINGLES(???) IN YOUR AREA

by orphan_account



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alcohol, Awkwardness, Canon-Typical Violence, Cats, F/F, First Dates, Fluff and Humor, M/M, everyone is gay as fuck and monstrous and trying to get by, mild crack, tinder dates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-02-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:13:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22509880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Gerry, 30don't ask me about books. just looking for a good time with guys who set fires. yes the goth thing is real yes I'm 30 what of it.Four people, three of them monsters, on two awkward dates. Written for the Rusty Quill Rarepair exchange!
Relationships: Gerard Keay/Michael, Nikola Orsinov/Jane Prentiss
Comments: 37
Kudos: 428
Collections: The Magnus Archives Rare Pairs 2020





	HOT(?) SINGLES(???) IN YOUR AREA

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Chillytide](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chillytide/gifts).



_Gerry, 30_

_don't ask me about books. just looking for a good time with guys who set fires. yes the goth thing is real yes I'm 30 what of it._

"This is purely for academic purposes, cat," Gerry scowls over the rim of his phone.

Dancer blinks up at him with round, green eyes with nothing behind them, and lets out an incessant yoww.

" _Look_. It's statistically likely that some monsters have to be on dating sites. Everyone on this thing is sad and lonely and pathetic. Monsters feed off that shit." He stares Dancer in the face, wrinkles his nose, and adds, "excluding me, because I'm cool and sexy and have lots of friends."

Dancer begins to wash herself.

"It'll be a side thing," he continues unabashed, "Easier than tracking them down on foot. Not to mention all the hours slogging through mud and damp alleyways I've wasted on literally nothing. And hey— guys use dating sites all the time. Guys who like guys. Maybe I'll find a guy who has an extremely specific fetish for goths in their thirties. Who knows. It's not a big thing."

He glares over at Dancer. "It's not."

Bored, Dancer leaps gracefully off the couch and trots away to go chew on plastic somewhere.

"I leave your water out every night, ingrate," he calls after her dispassionately, but makes no move to get out of his spot. Maybe he should stop lying upside down on it so often, he thinks. He read something about the blood pressure doing bad things to your brain.

Halfway through his can of piss-awful hotel beer, his phone chimes. Gerry cracks an eye open in vague surprise someone matched with him so quickly, though he's a good 65% sure it's a supernatural thing (like everything else is) — though he has a hard time believing even a monster would be interested in him.

_Michael, 30_

_6'11", i don't look my age. i have good, dextrous hands :-). looking for: men under 6'11"._

The profile picture is a near-incomprehensible blurry bathroom selfie in which the only identifiable detail is a shock of curly blond hair.

"Huh," says Gerry, with more interest than he'd like to admit. Looks down at himself. "Well, I qualify."

Dancer lets out a muffled meow from the other room.

"It's _not_ cause I'm _short,_ shut up."

* * *

Hunched in the shadows of a forgotten alleyway, the hive named Jane stands over her latest victim.

They're sprawled out, unconscious, far away from the dimly flickering lamps lining the streets. Vulnerable. _Alone._ The hive clicks, tilting her head, feeling the collective hum of thousands of worms wriggling softly within her. They whisper to feed and that's the closest simulation she has left of hunger.

The victim has black hair, like hers, though it curls rather than flows in thick, oily strands. A small pink crystal on a tangled cord round their neck. Their face is remarkable similar to the one she used to have, too— the one before the worms marked it with honeycombed bites, punched holes through till she was more wound than flesh. She's almost surprised at the feeling it invokes— an itching, crawling sensation of nostalgia. At one point she was so like this the thing that became her prey that they might've been friends, has they known each other. Had she not changed. Once she remembers the concept, Jane finds this amusing.

It won't save them.

She leans over the limp body, trying to find an easy point of entry. Their phone is still in their hand— she can hear the buzz of music through the earbuds. Jane's head twitches. She remembers that used to be a pet peeve of hers, once. Vaguely remembers. Even as an Avatar of the Corruption, Jane Prentiss knows it's damn annoying when one's music is turned up loud enough to be heard halfway across the room, is it so much hassle to turn the volume _down?_

She pauses. Checking once to see if they're waking up any time soon (they're out cold) she takes the device out of their limp grasp and pushes the volume dial down to zero. Then on second thought, swipes into the apps list and deletes the music app altogether.

Yesss.

Evil.

Actually, it's been a while since Jane's had a phone, too. The one she took off that sniveling Archival assistant from the blasted institute ran out of battery after a day. It didn't even have any good games on it, just bad 4 a.m. poetry. Jane looks around to check if anyone's watching. Mostly because it'll be a hassle to deal with bystanders, but also because it would just be _embarrassing_ to be seen standing over a victim without even having fed, rifling through their pockets, wouldn't it? No one's coming around.

She scrolls through. The worms make it kind of inconvenient, but she makes it work. No games again (she remembers when phones had enough storage for games without combusting, she thinks grumpily) but— her finger stills over the unfamiliar icon of a dating app.

Hmm.

Tapping in, it's clear the thing hasn't been used in many moons. The profile isn't even filled out all the way, the only picture is a shaky bathroom selfie of them looking slightly off-center of the camera. This doesn't feel like a good promotion of oneself for potential matings, Jane puzzles. Even the worms give a confused wiggle or two.

Surely they wouldn't mind if… she borrowed this.

 _You do not need dates,_ the worms whisper. _You are already loved by thousands. We must feed. We must feed._

Jane rolls her eyes. It's always about feeding with them, every time she so much as glances at an opportunity for human contact… so sue her, it gets lonely waiting in rain gutters for unwitting victims or terrified waifish women to infect. Not to mention damp. And cold.

 _We hunger_ , say the worms.

Jane tactfully ignores them and starts tapping out a bio.

_woman. black hair. eyes. I have all my limbs. worms expert. I also have two hands and a face. enthusiastic to meet new people. looking for someone who doesn't mind pets._

_There_ , the hive thinks to herself with satisfaction, _that's how People talk._

She hesitates over taking a picture. It's difficult at the best of times to get around without people panicking over her visage, and as accepting as her potential date might be, it would be hard to sit through an entire dinner date without at least _one_ worm getting impatient. She loves the Hive (belongs to the Hive) but they don't do her many favors for general interaction.

Maybe she'll just wear a hoodie.

Yes. That'll work, definitely.

The sounds of sudden rustling as someone walks up to the alleyway entrance snap Jane back to reality. "Hello?" A concerned voice calls out, and the sprawled victim at Jane's feet begins to groan.

Jane hisses and scuttles on all fours back into the depths where she'd come from, out of sight of the interloper and the almost-victim slowly coming back to consciousness. She curses— she'd gotten so caught up she hadn't even fed. What used to be her stomach (mostly worms now) writhes with hunger.

She'll _get_ her meal when she's on the _date,_ Jane tells herself firmly, phone still clutched in her hand and now covered with black, tarry slime. Patience rewards itself. In time, she will feast, and it will be worth the wait.

* * *

Nikola spends forty-five minutes preparing her best face for this venture, and forty-six arguing the merits _of_ said venture to Sarah, who's nothing but a killjoy at the best of times.

"You're absurd. A _date?"_

"What's so absurd about dates?!" Nikola trills. "Surely you've heard of the concept? I know you haven't been out in a while, buuuuut…"

A thick black unidentifiable substance trickles from Sarah's left ear, which means she's annoyed, and the sagging skin of her face tightens into a thin-lipped, scornful expression. She crosses her arms.

“I _know_ what dates are, Nikola. I’m asking why _you’re_ preparing for one.”

Nikola examines her nail polish in the dimly flickering circus spotlight. “Ah, well… can’t a girl unwind every once in a while? Chat someone up, maybe even have dinner before I eat their identity and replace every fiber of their being with my own?”

Sarah glowers. “No. A girl can't.”

“You're no fun!” Nikola squawks. “And I’m _bored,_ Sarah, _bored_ of it! It's bad enough that our fear comes from as little people knowing about our hijacks as possible— but don't you know, chatting up people when you're changing _face skins_ every five hours is tough.” She sighs. “No one knows the real me…”

“The real you who is a ringleader mannequin-neé-clown.”

Nikola sniffles. “Yes.”

Sarah throws her hands up. “Just forget it. How do you expect to reel in ladies when you aren't even _aware_ of how absurdly outlandish you are? You're going to cause panic in the street.”

“But I put on my _best_ face.” Miria Hawthorne, Orlando 2007, skin still in ripe condition. “And my profile is _very_ good.”

Sarah snatches the phone away from her and squints. _"Skin care practitioner. Lover of antique dolls and intricate acrobatics performances. Clown emoji."_

“It’s flawless.”

“You couldn't attract a dead fish.”

“Oh, sock it, you—” Out of nowhere, her phone trills. Both she and Sarah immediately stare at the screen, and Nikola lets out a victorious whoop.

“Hah!”

“It's a fluke,” Sarah says immediately, her scowl twisting into an uglier, harried grimace. “No one in their right mind—”

“It will be _love at first sight,_ I swear to God.” Nikola claps her hands. “Bodyguaaards?”

One heavily Cockney-accented voice pipes up: “Yeah?”

Then another identical one from the other side of the room: “How can we help you?”

“You are to deliver me to my date with gusto and poise. I'm looking to impress her, got it? What's your fanciest vehicle?”

Breekon and Hope glance at each other briefly.

“We got a moving van,” says Breekon.

“That’s ’bout all we use,” admits Hope. “We’re a delivery service, not exactly chauffeurs.”

Nikola steeples her fingers. “It’ll have to do. Now! To the date!”

* * *

The restaurant Gerry finds himself stumbling into is _not_ the kind of place he's used to.

For a start, everyone in attendance looks like they work jobs that earn above minimum wage; posh couples with tailored clothes that probably amount to more than Gerry's current account balance, drinking wine. Most of them are in their forties. They all look somehow younger than Gerry, though, with the dark circles under his eyes and somewhat haunted-looking default expression— he'd caught his reflection in the glossy surface of a nearby fish tank and winced.

He'd cleaned up the best he could considering his limited wardrobe and the hotel shower's dubious quality, but the cleanest shirt in his closet has a giant, gnarly tear where a Hunter took a swipe at him. He'd always tried to pass it off as a punk thing. With his horrible dyed hair and rushed makeup, his badly painted nails, his popped-collar leather jacket that's secretly about a size too big, Gerry feels entirely out of place.

"Michael", if that even _is_ his name, is easy enough to spot. The pictures, unreliable as they were, hadn't lied about the shock of frizzy blond hair, though maybe Gerry had underestimated the sheer _volume_ of it. He wonders if the guy's ever heard of hairbrushes. He's wearing a sweater that looks like it was made from a bowling alley carpet, which makes Gerry feel better about his own wardrobe choices.

His nose is buried in a menu, and he's sitting at a table for two with one chair politely, invitingly, pulled out.

It takes a while for Gerry to actually make his way over from the entrance. It's embarrassing, but it's really been a _while_ since he's done anything like this, even if this _is_ for the purpose of luring monsters and killing them when their defenses are down. His heart's hammering in his chest.

Gerry plonks himself down and tries to look nonchalantly suave instead of awkward. "Hey. Michael, right?"

Michael puts the menu down. It's the first time Gerry's actually seen his face, and it's… fine. Not out-of-the-ballpark handsome or anything, but serviceable; round, dimpled cheeks and a few off-center freckles. He sports an amicable smile as if greeting an old friend.

"If that's what you'd like to call me."

Gerry feels his stomach roil as he pushes himself up to the table, suddenly feeling like a kid in shoes several sizes too big. "Uh— hm. Hi. I'm Gerar— _Gerry._ We met on the…"

"Yes, I remember." _His voice is nice,_ Gerry thinks, even though it's way too early in the evening to be thinking things like that, it's just _nice-sounding._ "It's not my usual scene, really, but I thought I'd try it. Branching out, as it were…"

"Same. Same." Gerry nods way too many times. "Same."

Michael surveys him with a slight tilt of the head (his eyes are blue, Gerry _thinks,_ but it's oddly hard to tell in the dim lighting and the mass of obscuring blond curls) before letting an airy, amused chuckle. Gerry is hit by a sensation like vertigo except it's just in his gut and not his whole body; as his head spins he feels his face go red like a traffic light.

Hm.

He covers it up by taking the big, fancy glass of wine and swigging. Michael blinks owlishly and continues to smile, and it's completely inscrutable if he registered it or not.

"So," Gerry starts after a few moments of nothing but background chatter and the quiet clinking of forks and knives, "um… tell me 'bout yourself, I suppose." He's a little surprised Michael isn't, well, asking about his getup. Gerry tends to get very strange looks from people, especially those on the _posher_ side.

 _Then again, the man wouldn't have any right to judge me for it wearing that abomination of a sweater,_ his subconscious snarks. He swears the pricing sticker is still on there.

Michael gives him a little amused smile, even though Gerry's pretty sure he didn't say anything funny. He leans his head on one hand appraisingly. "What would _you_ like to know?"

He asks it like it's a rhetorical question. Like he doesn't expect any answer of substance and is just teasing Gerry with the idea. Gerry huffs a little through his nose and takes it as a challenge.

"Are you _seriously_ 32?"

Michael only gives a slight shrug. "I said I don't look my age."

Gerry's eyes narrow. "So you _aren't._ "

"Whoever said that?"

He rolls his eyes. "Next you'll be telling me your name isn't Michael."

Michael _grins_ at that— a dizzying smile that splits his face in two.

"For the love of fuck." Gerry puts his head in his hands. "Tell me I haven't been catfished or something on the date I spent most of my last paycheck for."

At that, though, Gerry's date— "date"— only shrugs. "Michael's what you paid for, so Michael's what you're going to get."

It takes a long sip of wine, prompting Gerry to raise his own drink out of habit, but before he downs the entire thing (as he is wont to do in times of stress, embarrassment, or pretty much anything) he manages to catch a glimpse of "Michael" through the curved glass, and—

The Michael sitting in front of him is impassive, ordinary, camouflaged by its own blandness. The Michael he's seeing through the wine glass is abstracted to the point of barely being humanoid— the eyes that are all at once too large and not close enough to see, the subtly ticking muscle of its throat, the lumpy gray and pink texture of the skin on its hands, which stretch far larger and longer than any human hand could physically manage and end at sharpened points.

It's warped. But not in the way a reflection is warped on an imperfect surface; it's not the _glass_ that's distorted— it's the man being mirrored in it.

_Shit._

* * *

Nikola hums to herself as she examines the menu for the fourteenth time— not actually planning to eat, but hungry for reading material regardless. Food doesn't tend to agree with her, what with having a mostly-hollow body (and skin, lots of it, where organs should be.) She's already pushing it with the full glass of wine she'd discreetly poured down a gap in her ball joints, to celebrate getting past security without drawing suspicion.

She can't wait to meet this _Jane._ With a profile that promising, she's eager to get to the chase— not to mention so mysterious, considering the utter lack of personal information or clear shots of the face in any photographs! Worm enthusiast? Nikola _loves_ worms. Especially the ones on strings!

It'll be a match made in hell, and even if it doesn't work out, well, Nikola could always use another body to skin. Plus the waiters are supremely fun to terrorize.

She's four entrees into the seafood section when a dark figure stumbles through the entrance, adorned with a thick hoodie pulled all the way up on their head. They're only wearing one shoe. Their face is almost completely obscured by a mass of tangled, jet-black hair that goes all the way down past their shoulders, in which sticks and leaves are visibly caught.

Nikola swoons.

A hushed, vehement argument sparks with the maitrê d, who looks half-disgusted and half-horrified at the new arrival's visage, but with another glance at the booked tables for tonight he lets them through with a grumble.

"Jane" slowly wades through the sea of waiters and tables to the seat across from Nikola. She moves with an unbalanced gait as if swaying on her feet, like she needs to remember how to keep herself upright. Her face is no more visible up close, but there's an eye bashfully peeking through the dark curtain. Very cute. Nikola puts on her most award-winning smile (a nearby waiter stifles a scream).

"Hello there, Jane!" she chirps, always eager to kick off the conversation. She puts her chin on one hand and tilts it coquettishly. 

Jane makes a quiet chittering sound that Nikola politely doesn't acknowledge, and picks at her nails for a few seconds before replying.

"Hello."

Oh, her voice is positively _lovely._ Also it sounds like many, many voices layered into one. That's a bonus, Nikola thinks.

"Would you like to order? I was thinking of having an appetizer, but I don't want to start the show without you…" If Nikola had hair, she'd be twirling it. Jane stares at the menu like she doesn't exactly remember what it is.

"Um… I'll have… what you're having," she rasps. Nikola nods brightly. Two salads! She'll just dump her bowl in the fish tank when nobody's looking.

"Right then!" She snaps her fingers instinctively— in the circus, everyone knows the cue for when Nikola Orsinov needs _assistance_ — but no waiters come.

Nikola glares around. All the staff who aren't busy with other patrons are busy cowering behind seats and sending unnerved, wide-eyed glances in her direction.

She turns back to Jane, pleased.

"It seems service is slow at this juncture. I'm sorry, dear."

"Oh, that's all right." Jane scratches her arms absentmindedly. "I don't need to eat much at all."

Nikola gasps. "Me _too!"_ They already have so much in common.

The motion of Jane's head suggests a smile, but it's so completely obscured by the thick mane of hair and pulled-up hoodie that it's pretty inscrutable. Nikola wonders if it's rude to ask.

So they just… sit there. Smiling at each other. Well, _she,_ Nikola, is smiling. She's not so sure, but she likes to think Jane is too.

"Have you seen the menu?" she offers it over the table. "It's quite good reading."

Jane makes an intrigued gurgle and starts thumbing through the pages.

* * *

"...but he was using a dictionary from 2002, so there's that large grain of salt to take it with."

Gerry has spent the last twenty minutes sitting in place, sweating profusely, and internally swearing violently at himself for not bringing any goddamn knives. _"Oh, it's not good dinner etiquette!"_ The sardonic inner monologues that plays whenever he does something stupid says. _"Surely you don't need all your knives tonight, just this once!" Idiot. You_ always _need knives._

He slumps back in his seat and pretends he's been following along with whatever inane story his "date" is telling.

"Ahhh… that's college for you, hm?" The thing called Michael chuckles to itself, the sound ringing in Gerry's ears. "Anyway, enough about me." This discounts the fact that from the few snippets he'd actually absorbed, not one part of Michael's story imparted any knowledge _about_ Michael at all. "Tell me something about yourself! You've hardly spoken a word."

 _I want my knives,_ Gerry laments silently.

"I… I don't know, there's not much about me you would want to know," he mumbles. It's a true statement. Not much information about Gerard is particularly pleasant. "It's pretty boring."

"Oh, come now." There's a playful gleam in its painfully blue eyes, like now it's facing the challenge. It seems to like the fact that he's not giving anything up. "Just one little detail."

Gerry crosses his arms and sets his jaw. "Guess."

Its eyebrows shoot up. It looks caught off guard— but only for a moment before that mischievous, too-wide grin slides back onto its face like oil on water. "Ooh. Dangerous." _I like it,_ goes unsaid, but is audible in every facet of its voice. "Give me something to go on."

Gerry thinks for a moment. And in doing so does a discreet scan around the area, taking in his surroundings, cataloguing the exits and entrances. "You should guess what I do for a living."

"Mm." Its fingers tap the table, one after the other, a lopsided _clunk clunk clunk clunk_ that makes Gerry's hair stand on end. "My first instinct would be to say you're in a band, but there's not nearly enough eyeliner for that."

Gerry actually snorts aloud. It's right, he really doesn't. (He was aiming for business casual tonight.)

"My next guess would be something boring. Minimum wage but achievable. Fast food worker, cashier, library assistant. But you look more _interesting_ than that…"

"Go on?" Gerry's hand slides discreetly, millimeter by millimeter, towards the silverware next to his plate.

"You have the air of… someone who knows a lot." Michael's eyes glimmer. "Perhaps more than they let on. But you don't flaunt it… no, what you know is too dangerous for most people. You are haunted. I know a place that just breeds people like you, attracts them like flies. In fact, _I_ used to work there."

Gerry's pinky finger hooks around the base of the fork.

"You work at the Magnus Institute."

At that moment, Gerry slams the fork down with all his might into Michael's hand, feeling the prongs hit solid table beneath with a satisfying _crunch._

He looks up, breathing heavily, to see that Michael's expression is completely unchanged, its grin more like an eerie rictus, a spark of triumph burning in its eyes.

"Got you," Michael sing-songs. "I win."

* * *

"Why don't you show your face? If that's, you know, not _impolite_ to ask…"

Jane twitches a little, hand hovering halfway between menu pages. "Um…"

"Never mind." Nikola waves a hand. "Forget I asked."

"No, no, it's…" The scratching is a nervous habit, it seems. Most of her arms are covered (as well as her hands, by thick, ill-fitting mittens), but the bits that are exposed at the curves of her wrist are very pale and streaked with gray, circular marks. "Most people do not _like_ to see my face. We—" she coughs. "I… have a condition, of sorts."

Nikola nods understandingly. "I _totally_ get conditions." She reaches up to adjust her top hat and her hand rotates 270 degrees in its socket. "You know… I really wouldn't mind seeing… only if you're comfortable, though!"

Jane lets out a soft hiss and tightens the fabric around her face. "No."

Nikola sighs. "All right."

"It's not you."

"Mhm…"

"My face was never… good to look at."

Nikola scoffs. "Come now." Jane looks a little surprised. "I'm _sure_ that's not true."

She violently shakes her head, hands scratch-scratch-scratching with even more fervor. "No. No."

"I'm sure it is, darling…"

"My face looks terrible. And. My skin condition is very bad."

Nikola perks up for just a moment. "Condition? I love skincare. You know, I bet we could find a cream for that—"

"No cream could fix what's happened to me," says Jane, an air of finality to her voice. "It would be best if you didn't see."

Again, Nikola lets out a sigh. "...alright."

They both look to their empty plates, forks clinking quietly around them. Nikola is now painfully aware of the happily chatting couples paired together at faraway tables, their flushed faces, their exuberant smiles at one another. Not even the waiter hiding under the dessert cart lifts her mood.

Jane is crossing her arms, rocking back and forth and muttering to herself. She's clearly agitated. Nikola feels awful about it, but it's not like lifting spirits is really her forté— she's a clown! Not a court jester! She works in fear and terror, not emotional connection. But Jane's discomfort gives her no pleasure. She has to sort this out.

Nikola resolves herself, then pipes up again.

"Would you like to know a secret?"

An eye pokes out from the matted hair curiously. Nikola gives an encouraging smile.

"Well?"

"Yes," stammers Jane, voice gravelly. "Sure."

Conspiratorially, Nikola leans in as if to whisper. Jane tilts her head a little to catch the sound, exposing a pale ear in the process, and for just a moment Nikola swears she sees movement there; something small and alive darting across the skin.

"This isn't my real face either," Nikola says.

If Jane had eyebrows (maybe she does? hard to tell.) they would be rising. She puts a hand to her chin, thinks for a second, then says:

"Oh. Is this. Hm. Is this what's called…" she tilts her head. "Catfishing?"

Nikola erupts into uproarious laughter. "No! Silly goose. No. It's me, here, in the flesh. What I _mean_ is… you're scared that you're a monster, aren't you? Well, so am I." She winks. "So you don't need to hide from me."

Jane is stunned into silence. Even the ever-moving hands are still.

"We may not be the same kind of monster per se. You're very different from me. And that's a good thing! There's only one of me, you see, and I'd like to keep it that way… for me, identity is very important. But our differences bring us together in this case. You're quite the enigma, Jane Prentiss… but you're also a very charming and cute one. I haven't had this much fun on a date in ages."

Jane bows her head in bashfully, shoulders squirming.

"I don't eat human food," she admits, a hint of a smile in her voice.

"Oh my god me neither thank you for bringing it up," Nikola motor-mouths. "I'm _starving."_

Jane straightens in her seat. For the first time on the whole date, she seems confident, sure of herself, at least in this regard. The hair falls away slightly from the face and Nikola can see hints of the hidden features— a strong nose, thin lips, strange markings that honeycomb across her skin.

Nikola grins.

"Let's go find a _real_ meal," the monster named Jane Prentiss rasps, and smiles with a mouth full of rotten teeth.

* * *

_This is all your fault, Keay,_ Gerry thinks furiously at himself. _You wouldn't be in this mess if you weren't so bloody_ lonely _._

But no, because of his own masochistic desire to reconnect with some member of humanity rather than do the _logical_ thing he'd been so good at and just leave it alone, he's about to die by _monologue._ It isn't too different from the beginning of the date, actually— Michael is a torrent of words, and Gerry has no idea what any of it means.

"...your fate was truly sealed the first time you stepped foot into the Institute. As do all ld you who work there… the question is not when, but _how."_

"Mmh," Gerry mumbles absentmindedly, head spinning like a top, his vision swimming with nauseously colored spirals. "Didn't you say you used t' work there?"

Michael falters, a tight expression crosses its face like it's a little put out Gerry interrupted its speech. Then in a snap the smile is back again. "Maybe."

"I bet Gertrude would've loved you," Gerry mumbles.

The onslaught of monologue trickles to a stuttered, slow stop.

"Excuse me?"

Gerry peeks an eye open. Above him, Michael's grinning face has slackened into… something. An expression, but of something Gerry can barely get a grip on. (He's never been good at that, anyway.) It looks… surprised, kind of? Maybe a little offended? Weirded out, definitely.

"Um, sorry?" Gerry says, wondering why Michael isn't killing him already. "Did I offend you or something?"

"You know Gertrude?"

He snorts. "I _work_ for her."

There is a long, uncomfortable pause.

"Oh, _no,"_ says Michael.

...well, that's unexpected.

"Sorry?" he tries.

"It's just… that's an awful experience," Michael starts to explain, then catches himself. "It's against my nature to explain, but… wow."

"Oh, _thank_ you," Gerry says, all biting sarcasm, because now even the _eldritch superbeing of unknowledge_ is getting in on the dunking on Gerry's job thing. Could people _please_ quit it? He knows it's barely above fucking minimum wage, it's impossible enough to get jobs with felonies on his record anyway, leave him alone.

"You're welcome," Michael says absentmindedly, like it doesn't even register the tone. "I'm just… sorry. No one deserves that."

"You're the first person to tell me," replies Gerry. He crosses his arms to look standoffish but honestly he doesn't think it reaches his face. No one really _has_ told him sorry for anything, in his life, and it's weird and cathartic to hear it out of the blue.

"Does she still have…" Michael grimaces. "You know. The filing system?"

"Oh, _god._ Did she used to have them all the way back…?"

 _"Yes._ My god. It was infuriating," rages Michael, temporarily transported to a bygone era. "The filing itself makes no sense. And the labels on the tapes are just—"

"Incomprehensible."

"Yes! Right?! And don't get me started on the whole recording audio on tapes thing—"

"They're fucking heavy."

"And hard to store!"

"Inefficient."

"And the handwriting for most of them was so _fucked,"_ caps off Michael.

Gerry laughs. It's a little rusty, he hasn't done it in a while, but he hasn't done _most_ of the things he's doing tonight in a while. "Nothing changes. Time is a flat circle."

"It's actually a spiral, but yes." Michael shakes his head and puffs out a sigh. The movement is mesmerizing, in a hypnotizing pendulum swinging kind of way. "I'm honestly almost impressed that she's still alive, but… that's not surprising. Gertrude is Gertrude." It sighs again, more subdued. "I was a fool to underestimate her so much."

"What…" Gerry wets his lips. "...happened to you?"

Michael looks at him for a solid half minute. "I can't tell you." But the look in his eyes, painful as it is to glean, says otherwise. He doesn't want to tell, because his whole thing is leaving people in the dark, scrambling for information— but he craves someone to tell it to regardless. He needs to have an audience, a companion to whisper to.

He's lonely too, Gerry realizes.

The meal itself is mostly finished. Not that he's been very preoccupied with eating, but the food appears to be melting into the plates and turning into material that's completely inedible, so—? Yeah. Yeah, he's done with all that.

He doesn't want to be done with the date, though.

(He knows Michael just tried to kill him, but hey, Gerry is a dangerous guy. He tried to do the same.)

(A little part of his brain wonders if that's a sign they're meant for each other before being pointedly snuffed out by the rest.)

"Well, um," he starts out. Michael looks just as bewildered on the next course of action as he is. "I don't think this turned out the way either of us expected."

"Quite," it agrees, running a hand through hair that Gerry's only now noticing is writhing and curling on itself subtly.

"I know I put a fork in you, but you seem nonplussed about it, and…" Words, words, words. What are words. Gerry's tongue feels heavy in his mouth and cottony. "D'you want to do this again sometime? Not here," he adds quickly, taking another glance around at the people in well-pressed suits and delicate attire.

Michael gestures helplessly. "I… wasn't expecting this." It thinks to itself for a moment, then nods. "But yes."

"Alright." Gerry tries to remember the places he's been to that haven't banned him from the premises. "There's a burger joint near my apartment. If you want to go there maybe we can swing by and see Dancer."

"Dancer?"

"My cat."

Michael's ears prick up. "You have a cat?" he says hopefully.

"If you try to eat her, the date is cancelled," Gerry warns, only half-joking. "She's a spitfire. She'll give you indigestion."

"Oh, I don't doubt it." A brilliant smile crosses Michael's face once again, similar in size to the one it had worn before, but with none of the malice. This one is genuinely warm, lacks the artifice of the slightly vacant smirk it had worn through the first half of dinner. A _fond_ smile. Gerry feels his stomach flip 360 degrees.

"You'll have to tell me all about yourself when we get there," Michael says, standing and motioning for the check. "You still haven't told me anything about yourself!"

"How about this," Gerry replies. "I'm Gerry Keay and I kill monsters like you."

Michael's eyes glimmer. "Fascinating." He pulls up to a door that has a mustard yellow frame (there wasn't a door there before, Gerry thinks, he'd checked all the exits) and pauses just before heading out.

"I look forward to seeing you again, Gerry," he says. "May our paths meet again, whether that be violence… or…"

He winks, then scurries right out the door.

Gerry finds himself staring at the thing with a hand over his chest, distantly feeling his heart pound, and worst of all, a goofy smile growing on his lips wider and wider by the second. By _God,_ he's gay. And he has the absolute worst taste.

Someone clears their throat behind him and he spins to find a disgruntled-looking waiter, a long check, and an outstretched hand.

Gerry suddenly remembers the contents of his wallet consists of a couple loose notes and one piece of lint.

"Um." Gerry glances back over to the yellow-bordered door, but it's vanished.

"Fuck," he says aloud, to the waiter's face, before backhanding him and shoving his way over to the entrance before security can even react. He's out the door before anyone knows it, back onto the streets; by this time it's swathed in midnight and the only light to the area is the soft flow is streetlights.

Gerry runs a safe distance away, stops to catch his breath, and sits on a nearby park bench.

He leans back in his seat. The sky is beautiful from here, dotted with distant stars, a new moon hanging empty in the distance.

Gerry smiles. It's been a good night after all.


End file.
